


Thirty Day Bride

by puppydeanandjen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Engagement, Aftermath of Spells, Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, attempted comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/puppydeanandjen
Summary: Sam wakes up with a blaring headache, a ring on his finger and a marriage license with his brother’s name on it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I've been working on the past few days. Inspired by that Sam and Becky marrying scene because I honestly thought that he would say "We're getting married" to Dean. 
> 
> I am looking for a beta for this fic, so please message me if you would like to take the position. Enjoy!

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Click. Tap.

 

Sam’s eyelids flutter open to blurry shapes defined only by their brownish tones. The stiff, smooth backing and the fleece blankets remind him that he’s in the motel room that they checked into a couple of days ago. Some strange missing persons case.

 

A throbbing pain seeps into his forehead as he rises, massaging it out with gentle fingers. His vision soon adjusts to the familiar surroundings, twisting towards the noise that woke him, blankets ruffling.

 

It’s Dean-fully dressed in flannel attire-, typing at the laptop on the crappy wooden table, fixated onto the screen with furrowed brows. Golden hues tip-in from the openings between shutters, glossing over his brother as he sips the beer in hand.

 

Sam glances at the nearby digital clock which exclaims 6:00 AM in a neon red. Way too early for drinking. Way too early for Dean to be _out of bed_. But he doesn’t pay much mind to it as he’s got far worse problems at hand. The pulsating headache increases its pressure by the second and he groans slightly.

 

Definitely needs some Advil.

 

Swinging himself out of bed, Sam wobbly travels over to the TV stand drawers which carry dents and marks on them from elongated use. He slides the top one open, realizing that there’s something metallic around his right ring finger.

 

A thin, silver ring that’s littered with scratches as if it were second hand, yet the shine still remains.  

 

_There’s no way._

 

He brushes it off as his imagination from the pain daze, attention shifting downward to the half-opened duffle, sifting through it for the medication. It doesn’t take him long to find the pills and he pops them in his mouth, swallowing them dry effortlessly. Peering in again, Sam notices something strange; a single sheet of paper folded in half that he’s never seen before.

 

Snatching the paper from his bag, he unfolds it.

 

_Marriage License_

 

The words glare at him in gigantic letters that fill a quarter of the page. His heartbeat begins to quicken, paling with the realization as if his sex tape had been released to the public; no, this is probably _worse_ than that. He doesn’t even make it through the first paragraph before he’s turning to his brother.

 

“D-Dean,” he calls shakily-hands trembling-approaching towards him to present his discovery. “Why is there a marriage license with both of our names on it in my bag?!”

 

There isn’t even a glimpse of surprise or worry on his brother’s face; instead, he just takes a swig of his beer. Only then does Sam sees an identical wedding ring on Dean’s finger, glinting in the newly awakened sunlight. It erases the suspicion of falsehood that _this totally can’t be happening right_.

 

“Calm down, we’re not actually married,” Dean explains placidly, setting the empty bottle down as if _that_ made everything better. Green eyes-puffy, darkish bags underneath-flick over to him like they were expecting some specific reaction. “You got whammied by a witch a couple of days ago and went on this crazy fucking courting rampage like those bad adult romance novels. Luckily, we didn’t actually get married, so the license will expire in around 30 days since we’re in Alabama. I already ganked her while you were out.” He chuckles-hand picking up the bottom of the bottle and twirling it-with the corner of his mouth quirking upwards like this situation is just amusing to him, but it’s awkward and forced.

 

Nervous, in fact.

 

“Wow,” Sam replies with earnest admiration, sliding into the chair across and cocking his head to the side a bit as usual. Yeah, the best way to deal with this right now is to have a nonchalant attitude about it. They’re not exactly married, so it shouldn’t be a huge problem, right? “You did your research.”

 

“Well, you’ve been asleep for a while, sleeping beauty,” Dean snorted, tossing the bottle in the nearby trash can with a clatter and shutting the laptop close. Sam’s hyper-aware of the sheet under his fingertips, writing staring upward at him as he folds it back close on the table.

 

“I thought that incest was illegal, though,” Sam states, unable to stop the visible cringe at the word ‘incest’ as it rolls off his tongue. For a moment, Dean purses his lips-gaze faltering-before returning to normal with a single blink.

 

“Maybe, you bribed the official, I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly there when you got the license.” Irritation bleeds through Dean’s voice, but it’s still stable and calm. Suddenly, Dean jolts up from his seat, the sound of the chair scraping across the floor resounding in the room. He grumbles out an “I need coffee. Let’s get some breakfast.” and simply walks out.

 

Sam quickly follows behind, wondering what the hell caused his brother’s switch to be flipped.

 

\---

 

The diner they arrive at is petite and crummy and vacant without any notable features that are worth remembering; besides, Sam’s too caught up in the fact that Dean’s _his ‘betrothed’_.  

 

He knows that he shouldn’t be pondering over this matter-knows that they aren’t actually married and that nobody would know if they keep quiet-, yet the thought won’t just evaporate from his memory bank with a poof. It’s still there, lightly prodding with a stick that leaves him uncomfortable.

 

Maybe, in a few years, he’ll laugh this off as a joke. Engaged to your own brother. Hysterical.

 

But it doesn’t delude from the point that he’s living that exact reality now.

 

The clacking of heels attracts his attention to the waitress with a couple plastic cups filled to the brim. An older waitress, a little on the chubbier side, dull blonde hair tied into a messy bun, and a pleasant, toothy grin of a motherly figure.

 

It’s a type that Sam doesn’t particularly mind, but knows that Dean hates-especially when there’s a cuter, younger waitress cleaning a few tables down. Although, his brother seems to be preoccupied in his own world, staring out the window while he cups his cheek, brooding almost. Strange.

 

“Hello, welcome. My name is Darla. I’ll be your waitress for today.” the woman says, putting the waters on their table, observing the two of them with a cheery expression and Sam politely smiles back. “Newlyweds?”

 

Heat pools in his stomach at the question, rising to his cheeks, and his heart stutters, completely missing a beat. The world stops around him-heart pounding in his ears-because _how could she know?_ Is it that obvious?

 

Then he spots it; the metal around his finger glimmering from the sunlight that washes over the table. _The ring._ Shit.

 

“Y-yeah” is all he can muster out, head snapping to Dean as a signal to follow his lead; his brother comes through in the end with a small, charming smile and a sheepish, curt nod. Rough fingertips-to Sam’s surprise-trace delicately over Sam’s hand before intertwining themselves together, the rings clinking together ever so slightly, squeezing gently. It’s soft and tender and everything it shouldn’t be.

 

“You guys look so adorable together.” she gushes while Sam internally pukes. “So what can I get for you, hon?”

 

“Scramble eggs and two sausages with hashbrowns. Also, a black coffee,” Dean recites without missing a single beat-alluring, natural smirk included-and pulls his hand back quickly to grasp the menu. The warmth in his hand remains for a moment before fading with the breeze of air conditioning.

 

“Just coffee for me. Black, as well,” Sam says, shutting the menu close and passing it to the waitress. His mind is too confuddled for any food.

 

“Alrighty, I’ll be back with the coffees.” Then she’s off with a literal skip in her step like meeting a gay couple is an achievement. He wants to roll his eyes, but they’re in public and he really needs the caffeine.

 

Right when she’s out of hearing range, Dean turns to him as he blankly states, “So I found us a case in Ouray, Colorado. A couple of bodies found without any hearts and wounds resembling scratches. Standard werewolf case. Thought we should check it out?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam replies automatically as if he had a choice to begin with. Plus he needs a simple hunt after this mess. Any kind of distraction sounds perfect.

 

“Cool,” His brother peels away from him to peer through the windows at the street that nobody is crossing.

 

The rest of breakfast goes as Sam expected it to go, silent and tense with the noises of utensils onto plates and elongated sips once the meals arrive.

 

There’s no smirk or playfulness or smart mouthing from Dean. Just pensive stares at the food.

 

Sam should say something, but the words fade away like smoke and nothing is left to be said.

 

\---

 

“Why are you still wearing the ring?”

 

It’s a question that Sam’s been meaning to ask when they exited the diner, slipping his own off automatically as he closed the door of the Impala. Dean had dropped by the motel to shuffle their stuff out and into the trunk before heading on the highway to Colorado.

 

The radio is dead silent due to a kid ghost ramming through it-frying the electricity in the car-several towns ago; his brother hasn’t had the opportunity to actually repair everything yet. Thankfully, the air conditioning works.

 

Signal out here is scarce and he isn’t tired in the slightest due to the coffee so he stuck here, bored, staring into the open, empty road. Slowly, they wander to his brother who stays focused on the pavement. Dean’s eyes are solid and vibrant in a brilliant shade of green with long lashes that flutter to blinks. Pearly white teeth peek out to bite the pink of his lips and they flush into a rosy color in response. Brows scrunch together to form a crease in between.

 

Dean is deliberating over something. All the signs are there. Sam can tell from scrutinizing his brother over the multitudes of years.

 

But Sam’s never examined how the freckles dust Dean’s face like stars cascading the clear, mystical night sky as they twinkle across the vastness. How milky and baby soft his skin is as if he were not a day older than 20. How his nose is tweaked just a bit in the bridge.

 

Everything that he shouldn’t be noticing.

 

Sam guesses that it can’t really be helped to observe these things about your brother when you’re illegally, incestuously, and homosexually engaged with each other.

 

He travels down the length of Dean’s arm-the petite hairs sticking upward-to his hands that still bears the smooth ring which squeezes moderately around the base of his finger and those words fall out naturally.

 

Dean concentration breaks as he shifts to him with an expression that Sam doesn’t quite comprehend-disappointment?-and then simply slides the ring off with an “I forgot it was on there.” and shoves it into his jacket pocket like Sam had done to his own.

 

The conversation ends there with Dean unwilling to speak of the past events. Sam understands why Dean won’t talk about it; that’s just the Winchester way. But that doesn’t allay the fears brewing in his mind.

 

Everything from the past few days have been completely blank like a piece of film had been cut out from the reel. He doesn’t even recall obtaining a marriage license. What did he do on those days? What did he say? Did they actually exchange vows and slide the rings on each other's fingers? Did they kiss next to the altar? Or did Dean stopped that all before it could happen? (He must have since they aren't actually married) Or did Sam crack open mentally stitched wounds that never should be cut?

 

Dean had assured him that nothing terrible happened. But his brother’s definition of terrible is worse than normal. And Sam’s just afraid that this would shatter their bond.

 

Maybe, that’s what scares him the most.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished the second chapter! I'm not very proud of the last part of this chapter or any of it. Sigh. If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out and the beta reader position is still open. I have one more chapter planned for this fic, but for now, I must take a small break to finish up some other stuff. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Sam’s plowing through the barn doors, desperately latching his arms around the bleeding body beside him- _Dean’s body-_ as he drags it to the car. There’s so much blood splattered across both of their bodies that Sam doesn’t even know which is human or werewolf. He lays Dean onto the backseat, maneuvers to the trunk for a towel, and tosses it to his brother.

 

“You’re going to be alright, Dean,” Sam reassures, wincing as he swings into the front, jostling a broken rib in the process. He’s painted in bruises and gashes in the shape of claws, but his brother is in worse shape.

 

The case was straightforward without any major complication until one of the werewolves, in the split second of life remaining, pulled out a gun and shot Dean in the hip. Luckily, it’s not a major wound from what Sam could tell, but his brother is losing so much blood from the other cuts and they need to get to the hospital immediately.

 

“Just hang in there, Dean. Talk to me,” Sam says heart pounding against his chest as he swerves down the road at top speed like a maniac, glancing at the front view mirror to check on him. His brother is sprawled across the seat-illuminated by the moon-with crimson liquid dripping down the seats, pressing his hand onto the towel to keep the bullet wound stabilized; Dean’s breathing is rapid as he clenches his eyes together. “Just say something. C’mon you gotta stay awake.”

 

There isn’t any traffic at the brink of midnight, thankfully, so they should be arriving there soon. All Sam has to do is keep calm and keep tabs on his brother’s condition. They’ll make it. He knows they will.

 

“Okay, okay” Dean exclaims in a hoarse voice, the creaking of leather resounding in Sam’s ears. He peeks over to the mirror again to see that Dean’s folding his legs inward into some sort of fetal position.“I’ve never talked about what happened. With the spell.”

 

Sam gulps as his grip on the wheel tightens, knowing exactly what’s about to be spilled.

 

“You called me at like ten in the morning, sending me an address to some church that I needed to go to immediately,” Dean says with a chuckle that tries to pierce through the stench of iron, but fails to puncture it.

 

Rustling causes Sam to turn, watching his brother shiver from the autumn air that surrounds the car in a chill vortex and the loss of lukewarm blood from wounds. Sam fiddles with the jacked-up heater that never seems to work when necessary. Instead, he strips his jacket while balancing the wheel and tosses it behind him without looking back. There’s more crumpling from behind that slowly becomes quiet.

 

“So I went. Knocked down a couple of doors to see a priest standing there decked out in robes and there were chairs covered in some fancy silk and you in a tux..with the biggest fucking grin, shoving a bouquet in my hands as you dragged me to the altar.”

 

He speaks about in a dreamy tone like the times when they were all wide-eyed and innocent as Dean spoke about mom-an image that Sam never retained as he was so young-under covers of their shared bed.

 

His brother hisses in pain from an unsuspected speed bump  

 

“Sorry,” Sam says, trying to pay more attention to the road since they’ve just entered the residential area.

 

“Y-You told me,” Dean continues as if it never happened. “That this was sudden and life is short and that we’re getting married...I-I punched you in the face before we could exchange any vows.”

 

A small sense of relief washes over him at that moment as the truth swims in his ears.

 

_Nothing terrible happened._

 

Sam exhales.

 

\---

 

Inconsistencies.

 

Everything about them is laced with it. From the credit cards in their wallets to the badges inside their suit pockets. But it’s not always tangible.  

 

The story that Dean had sprouted yesterday still doesn’t explain the rings that both of them wore. Doesn’t explain why he doesn’t have a bruise on his cheek from the hit that would’ve left him bleeding in the mouth because his brother strikes _that hard_.

 

But if that’s not the truth, then what is?

 

There’s no way that Dean would even utter a word about that incident again. So now he’s stuck to contemplating about the reality buried in a casket deep beneath the dirt while they rest at some filthy motel on the edge of Colorado.

 

Everything in the hospital had gone off without a hitch due to white lies that contributed to fake identities. His brother was released three days after, hightailing it out of the town before anybody could connect the dots. Sam marked it off the map of towns that they’ll never visit again-not like they ever will, hunters leave a messy trail after all.

 

Dean’s already chucked himself onto the gigantic bed that definitely reeks of sex. (“Only a king-sized left,” the owner said to Sam’s horror, but they’re plenty exhausted from hours of driving-Sam at the wheel-and the cool air that awaits outside combined with Dean’s injuries would halt further recovery, so it was the best option.) Snores echo loudly in Sam's ears as he slips under the sheets to join.

 

Might be easier just to sleep it off. Don’t worry about it.

 

Yet he can’t, not really.

 

Sam's staring, from the other side of the mattress, at the curves made by muscle defined in navy cotton, bending to respiration. Bristles jut out from the pale skin of the neck, only paler in the white glow of the moonlight peeking from behind.

 

Sam watches because that’s what he does. Observe his big brother to become just like him. Observe through the car windows with lore books and memorized Latin as the rest of his family stalks into the woods.

 

There’s a part of him that wants lean in closer. Smell the floral shampoo provided here in Dean’s hair. Wrap his arms around his waist and snuggle up close like they did as children when the heater in the motel room didn’t work and Dad just ordered them to suck it up.

 

He just wants to touch him.

 

Then Dean’s turning over-unconscious still-and they’re so close because, even though this bed is huge, it isn’t big enough for two burly men.

 

All his features are stark from proximity as the moon showers Dean like it was designed for that purpose.

 

_He’s really fucking beautiful._

 

Sam knows that-Dean’s been dropping panties since fourteen-, but, this time, _Sam’s_ the one dropping _his panties_ like his brother is a wet dream to him and, goddammit, he’s not some hormonal teenager. Sure, he’s thought about it a handful of times with their profound bond and Dean’s attractiveness and that he’s always just there. Yet, he knew for a fact it was wrong-a spur of lust-because they’re brothers and that’s not what brothers do.

 

Although, now, the line that was made so distinctively to him is erasing itself as inexplicable feelings come rolling in, blurring everything in the universe.

 

Sam doesn’t realize that the snoring had receded until Dean’s eyes open, dazzling like emeralds in a world that's filled with darkness, hoping and perceiving something unknown.

 

Hitching his breath, Sam flips himself away as his face flushes with heat, heart stuttering.

 

Shutting his eyes close, he tries to suppress all the emotions streaming through him, yet question them at the same time.

 

He doesn’t sleep.

 

\---

 

After that night, Dean would disappear every day when the sun fell to the rumbling of the Impala, arriving back at the motel in the darkness with wobbly bow-legs more drunk than sober. He’s consistently reeking of that shit, overwhelming his natural scent that was filled with gunpowder, cinnamon, and home.

 

Sam hates it, but he has no right to stop his brother. Dean's sudden increase in drinking isn't his problem. Plus he's normally like this.

 

That’s what he repeats in his head.

 

It’s harder to remember that mantra on those days where there weren’t any bars nearby, so his brother would buy liquor at the grocery store and carry it back to the motel room. Single lamp on as he drapes himself over the chair, taking swigs of alcohol. There’s longing in Dean's eyes, despair that reaches no ends, as he drowns himself.

 

Sam should’ve stopped him, right then and there, before his brother could tear himself apart into tiny fragments that would continue rip till they could no longer be formed.

 

Ten. There are only ten more days of this engagement between them; maybe, everything will fix itself by then. They’ll return to _their_ version of normal as they drive through the open road without an end in sight.

 

Sam tries to believe in that future; that is until the night when Dean trudges through those fated doors, although, this time, there’s a single difference: a ring attached to his finger. The half of a pair that he recognizes right off the bat, but now it contains more scratches with a particular shine radiating off of it. Polished.

 

“Why are you wearing the ring?”

 

It’s a simple question with pent-up frustration leaking through. Dean blankly stares at him with dead, diluted eyes that used to gleam like the silver adored on his hand and then he’s smirking with a crease between the brows like he's attempting to see straight through the blur of alcohol that he obviously consumed.

 

“Keeps the ladies away,” his brother replied nonchalantly. Sam thinks that he’s had enough.

 

“That doesn’t make sense, you like having women draped all over you,” He replies, marching up to him with stomps that bang against the carpet till they’re inches apart.“You’ve been acting strange ever since we got engaged.”

 

“No, I haven’t. You’re the one that’s been acting strangely. Watching me while I’m driving. While I’m eating. While I’m sleeping,” Dean spats out, glaring up at him-snarling almost-as hazel eyes widen. “So butt out of my sex life, bitch.”

 

His brother shoves past him and Sam can only stare at his hunched, retreating form.

 

“Dean-”

 

“Fuck off, Sam.”

 

The bathroom door slams shut, hard enough that there are mummers of complaints from the room next to them. Sam doesn’t even try to approach it because he knows that door would be locked and, sure, he could pick lock it, but that wouldn’t be worth the effort.

 

What would he say anyway?

 

Instead, he grabs his duffle, stuffing his hand in the inner pocket as the tips of his finger pick up the small chunk of metal. He hasn’t dared to take a peek at his ring since the incident at the diner because it brought uncomfortable memories. It’s dainty and light as it moves to rest on the palm of his hand.

 

Then he notices something engraved on the inside. Writing in fancy cursive.

 

_S.W + D.W_

 

Identical to the etchings on their home which two children had made with a pocket knife that neither of them was allowed to have at that age. Something created when they’re so pure and bright with hope. Something that Sam wishes he could travel back in time to see view the fresh marks and hide those kids away from the incoming suffering of bloodshed and fangs that should only exist in nightmares. Something that felt so right and joyful in their horrid childhood.

 

And, if this symbol represents everything that’s good to them, wouldn’t that make the ring good as well?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOP, I did it! There are some things in this chapter I didn't particularly like, but I think it's alright. I might write a piece about Dean's perspective on this whole thing or what happened beforehand or afterward-I'll make a poll about it on my Twitter tomorrow-, but, for now, enjoy!

“Motherfucker!” Sam shouts, scrambling through the corridor of the home belonging to the soon to be victim. “Dean, where are you?!”

 

It's a shapeshifter. An easy guess from the headlines which contained suicides that can’t be physically possible with the location of the wounds, but their fingerprints had been all over the weapons of destruction. Plus the thing had a type for young, petite women with bobbed black hair. That’s how they were able to track it down; however, the shapeshifter had arrived there before them and Dean had told him to take the lady somewhere safe while he tracked the shifter.

 

Both of them are outside when Sam hears a familiar scream of agony from behind.

 

_Dean._

 

He hands her a knife and directions to stab anything that looks like her or is a butt naked male. Then he charges inside which leads him to here. Another set of screams-accompanied by crashes-ring out in the tense, heavy atmosphere.

 

_It’s coming from below._

 

Sam sprints down the old, rigid stairs to the basement, preparing his gun as the lights flickers. He aims when he views the back of bare flesh that’s still grotesquely contorting into the image of his brother. Dean is being held to the wall by the neck with a hand-rough yet smooth-that looks exactly like his, like Dean is choking himself. His brother’s fingers grasping onto the arm of the perpetrator, attempting to tear the shifter off to no avail, with short intakes of air from his nose.

 

“Let him go,” Sam demands, advancing steadily.

 

‘Not’ Dean turns with a cocky smirk that’s filled with wicked intent, unlike the mischievous one that would paint Dean’s face whenever the bad guy ends up with a gun in their face or he’s charming a hot chick. The shifter’s hand drags Dean higher against the stone to the point where his toes are barely touching the floor. He knows that Sam isn’t going to shoot because he can’t since a simple squeeze could crush his brother’s windpipe.

 

Sam’s at a standstill.

 

There’s a wince of pain from the shifter, gritting his teeth, and Sam spots Dean dropping one hand, slithering it behind him to reach something. He catches a glimpse at the silver that Dean’s hiding; a knife which Sam distinctly remembers from the trunk.

 

‘Not’ Dean, regaining his footing and arrogance, twists toward his brother again as if he’s figured it all out and Sam’s about to shoot until-

 

“You love him don’t you,” ‘Not’ Dean says, voice all husky and Dean-like, nodding his head over to Sam while his brother’s eyes slowly widen. “In the ‘I want to fuck you’ kind of way. Or..the other way around.” There’s a chuckle. “You were ecstatic when you guys-hnmph”

 

The schlik of the knife resounds in the deadly quiet room, blood dripping from the newly open wound. A handle juts out from the shifter's stomach as he backs away from Dean who slides down to the concrete, panting. ‘Not’ Dean falls to his knees before collapsing completely onto the floor as the crimson spills out of him, streaming in pools. Observing ‘Not’ Dean’s naked body lay on the floor is strange since the features copied his brother exactly, yet that gets ignored in the end.

 

Because the pounding against Sam’s chest-mostly from the adrenaline-is accelerating as realization crashes down.

 

Dean likes him?  

 

Dean likes _him._

 

That sentence repeats itself like a creepy stuff animal with a recording that won’t turn off no matter how many time you bang it into the floor and attempt to crush with your shoes. His body heats from the inside out and his stomach does a whirl because _oh shit, Dean likes him._ It could be a lie, but why would the shapeshifter say it in the first place? Because it’s just a monster trying to pry into his head? No, there wouldn’t be a point.

 

His lips remain shut because everything has flipped topsy-turvy and he doesn’t trust himself to emit anything more than a babble which would explain all the opposite answers. Sam doesn’t process that Dean’s on his feet, trekking his way up the stairs, disregarding everything that occurred. Sam's mind jumpstarts again, chasing after his brother back. He’s always a step behind him even with his giant legs, shouting “Wait” and “Stop” to deaf ears like the times when his father and Dean would go on hunts by themselves leaving Sam in the care of the empty motel room.

 

Dean’s halfway out the house when Sam’s able to reach him, tugging at his arm and shoving him against the door, so he can’t escape.

 

“Dean, we have to talk about this.” Hands tighten their grasp onto the flannel jacket, pinning Dean to the wood with enough power to keep him there, but not hurt him. Dean’s staring at the birch panel below like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

 

“Drop it, Sam.” It’s faint and mild under gruff tones, blinking elongated as they try to escape the confrontation ahead.

 

“This is serious. We have to talk about this,” Sam says it in the way that his Dad used to do when barking orders at Dean-the one that his brother could never say no to-and Dean visibly flinches. There’s guilt eating him up for applying this technique on Dean, but if this were left alone, then the pain would be increased in tenfolds. He knows because that’s been happening for the past week. Their silent for a few moments before Dean speaks under the heat of Sam’s gaze.

 

“It’s wrong, Sammy...Y-you’re going to be with some nice, pretty girl, live an apple pie life, and I’m supposed to watch. I’m supposed to applaud you as your best man, as your brother. Let you live the life you always wanted...But I wanna to rob you of that, have you all for myself.”

 

Shattered eyes fixate on him that are more damaged than the scars that remain from hunts gone wrong. A cage unfastening itself, layer by layer, from the chains of facade until there’s a child that’s been battered in weapons called rules and burden and knowledge.

 

“I’m selfish, aren’t I?” There’s nothing that Sam can say. Speechless as his brain clouds in a haze of confusion. Emotions rambling against the each other, splitting him into two. And he’s frightened, so scared, about replying with wrong answers, all the letters jumbling on the tip of his tongue till it’s incoherent and he ends up saying nothing. “Just leave me alone.”

 

He’s pushing him away, strength already drained to that of a kid, but Sam’s pliant and complies easily. Dean exits into the abyss in tune to the click of the lock. Sam doesn’t chase after him, standing still until he could hear the purring of the Impala reverberate in his ear from the outside. Then he’s leaning against the white walls next to him.

 

He’s messed up big time. There’s tons of information unravel itself in Sam’s mind and feelings that are fighting against what’s right and wrong. A part of him is definitely denying that he has romantic feelings, yet when he thinks about Dean’s grin as they lit those fireworks on that sweltering July 4th when they were young and Dean’s eyes sparkled more than the explosions in the starry night sky, about Dean's whispers of ‘It’s okay, Sammy’ as arms tugged Sam closer to his embrace when he had watched his girlfriend sprawled on the milky ceiling with roaring fires swallowing her, about Dean sitting on the motel bed as he methodically cleaned his guns in the blissful silence because his existence-just being there-is comforting and yeah, he definitely has a thing for Dean. But it all boils down to the subject that it’s wrong in every sense-his brother seems to agree on that subject-,yet when have they ever gone with what’s right? Literally, angels had told them that they’re making a grave mistake, derailing from the highway of fate.

 

So why couldn’t they do that now?

 

Resolution burns within him as he tugs the doors open to reveal the woman from earlier, Mary he thinks, with pupils shaking in surprise, jumping backward.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam apologizes, but Mary shakes her head profusely, bowing to avoid any eye contact. “The shapeshifter is dead now.”

 

“T-thank you” It’s bashful and soft, barely grazing over his ears. She’s like a deer caught in the headlight, so Sam smiles, warm and tender, in hopes that it’ll comfort her. “Your brother dropped something when he left and I wanted to hand this back to you.”

 

She hands the knife and a folded, slip of paper to him in petite, jittery hands. Sam’s brows quirk upward as he retrieves the item, examining the unknown paper. There are multiple crumples on it like it’s been thrown away on several occasions but picked up again and again because the owner couldn’t bear to throw it out. Unfolding the sheet, Sam skims over the content, mouth gaping in surprise.

 

“Thanks.” Fumbling to shove it into his pocket, he asks “Do you happen to know where the nearest bar is?”

 

\---

 

Minutes. It had taken only minutes to arrive at the bar, sprinting, of course.

 

The bar is incredibly vacant, a few customers scattered across the room accompanied by the drink in their hands. Even the bartender is weary-eyed, probably a depressed college drop out whose hopes and dreams were crushed. Then there’s Dean amongst it all, seated on the stools near the counter, whirling amber liquor in a glass cup; the golden lighting above washing over him in waves that cause freckles to stand out on his skin. Through the stains on the glass, he can see the blurry image of the ring adorning Dean’s finger, metal stark against the pale of his hand.

 

Sam carefully slides into the seat next to him, watching as Dean downs the drink, calm and collected, smacking his lips once it’s finished. There isn’t any sign of acknowledgment, but Sam can tell that Dean knows he’s sitting here. The cup is set down on the table with a steady thud that doesn’t catch the other customers ear, too drunk or uncaring to notice.

 

There’s a pause between them as Sam formulates the words that he’s practiced on the way here, but the stage fright is getting to him now since Dean’s right beside him.

 

“I saw the marriage certificate,” Sam starts off, Dean nods along like he’s been expecting that. “So we’re-”

 

“We can get a divorce,” Dean replied bluntly, boring holes into the bottles that decorate the shelves, avoiding Sam entirely as if one glance would kill him. “If you want. Say that it’s one huge mistake in the system and we’re actually brothers.”

 

Raising his glass, Dean signals to the bartender for another, sliding it over to him; the bartender pours it into the cup and passes it back in a fluid motion. Dean chugs the drink without missing a beat, slamming back down.

 

“And what if I don’t want to?” Sam asks. That’s when Dean actually looks at him, eyes like emeralds. It’s as if Sam’s finally tuned into the correct radio channel and the rest of the world is white noise. “I don’t want a girl or a fuckin apple pie life. All I want is you, Dean.”

 

Sam’s about to fight the protest that will leak through Dean’s lips, but all he receives is a sheepish, “Really?”

 

Smiling, he clasps Dean’s right wrist as he removes the ring from his brother's finger and slides it on his own, pinching the flap of skin because of the smaller size, but it fits just right.

 

“Yeah,” he says with a small smile, leaning into Dean as he places a chaste kiss on his lips, scared of his brother’s answer even though he knows it already. Dean's pupils are blown out wide, trying to understand what had happened, and, once he does, chuckles in response

 

“Dude, no chick flick moments.” There’s a grin crawling onto Dean’s face despite the statement as pink brushes over his cheeks. Cute. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

 

So Sam does.

 

And everything is right in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm always up for chatting on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FantasyLoey) or [Tumblr](https://puppydeanandjen.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Feedback gives me fuel, so please feel to leave some!


End file.
